Summers at my aunt and uncle's place in Ogunquit, Maine. Spending the day at the beach, coming home hot and slippery with lotion, sticky with the salt water and sand. Sand on my feet, in my hair and in every crevice and skin fold. We'd be dumped together into the big claw-foot bathtub on the second floor -- the house was built in the 1880s and though it was large, it was also a little rough in a beautiful way -- and we were soaped up, giggling, towel-dried and draped in jammies. We'd navigate the twisting staircase down to the fireplace in the sitting room. My aunt would give us marshmallows to roast. The brick surrounding the fire would get so warm and the evening air would be cool. Flannel and warmth, toasted marshmallows and the smell of a wood fire, soapy scent of drying hair and freshly scrubbed bodies, and the night-time breeze sweeping in off the ocean. That's what I miss most about being a kid.